Volrün: A Tale of the Dovahkiin
by kaotickitkat
Summary: This story picks up after the events of Skyrim's civil war and is told from the view of a new character who is left unnamed as he seeks the truth of the hero of Skyrim from the legend himself, who tells an unheard tale: the tale of his beginning.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own any names and/or places pertaining to The Elder Scrolls series. Credit for them goes to Bethesda Softworks, LLC.

Note: This is my first attempt at fan fiction, or at least the first one I have deemed decent enough to share with others. Any and all reviews are welcomed.

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><p>I had finally tracked down the man I had been searching for my entire life in this backwater inn far in the North reaches of Skyrim. It was small and simple and situated well off the trodden path of most adventurers, and more importantly far from the piercing gaze of the Altmari Dominion whose Thalmor have been ruthlessly hunting any traces of Talos to extinction.<p>

The first thing I noticed when I opened the door was a wave of heat that rushed past me followed by a wall of smoky air that filled my lungs and threatened to suffocate me until I stepped in and spent a few moments getting used to the burning sting. I cast a glance across the inn, almost immediately spotting the old man a travelling bard had described to me earlier. He wore a dark and heavy traveler's robe, although from the looks of it he looked as though he hadn't done much travelling lately, nor that he would anytime soon. He seemed so ancient and frail that I began to doubt that he was the Dovahkiin I had set out to find.

_That bard would be paying for his lies_, I thought to myself.

I let my gaze wander around the hazy room, taking notice of the few patrons within, spending time discussing the day's activities before they would head off to their homes and rest up to begin the same work tomorrow. I took this time to recall the tales of the Dragonborn.

I had heard his tale sung in nearly every corner of Tamriel that I had traversed, or at least the provinces that still managed to elude the Altmari Dominion's reaching grasp. Despite the tale's popularity, or perhaps because of it, there were several inconsistencies and it was my intention to know the truth. Dovahkiin as he is known in the tongue of the fearsome Dovah, the dragons which have made a return in the last few decades—Dragonborn in the tongue of mortal man. I should say I was rather disappointed as my gaze turned back to him and lingered there, thinking back to the bard and all the choice words I would have for him when we next met.

I snapped out of my violent dreamwishing just in time to witness the elder man rise from his seat and slowly limp his way to the staircase leading up to the rooms. There he took each step one foot at a time, leaning against the railing for support. It was almost sad to watch him make such slow progress, and I had to remind myself that he had lived far longer than most ever had, almost as long as Tiber Septim before his ascension as Talos. I gave him a few seconds head start before making my way across the tavern to the stairwell, conscious of the sets of eyes following my progress.

I arrived at the base of the stairs just in time to see the old man's trailing cloak disappear around the corner. I bounded up the stairs two at a time as lightly and quietly as such a hasty move could allow and peered around the corner. I thought for a second that he had disappeared out of thin air before I saw the slightest flicker of movement and heard the click of a latching door only a few feet away. I quietly approached the door and put an ear up to the heavy oak. I strained to hear even the most hushed of sounds and I could have sworn I heard something. Loose? Roost?

"ROH DAH!" I jumped back just in time to witness the door being ripped off its hinges by an unseen force that made the very air seem as though it was being torn. Then my world was flipped upside down as I was violently thrown off my feet and slammed into the wall behind me like a ragdoll. My eyesight blurred as tears formed and began to fill up my eyes, and my head swam as I struggled to stand. A cloaked figure approached me with what I figured was a sword, though I couldn't have been sure with my vision obscured as it was. With one hand the figure hauled me to my feet and dragged me into the room through the broken door. The old man inspected my face and arms before tossing me into a chair against the far wall. I sat dazed for a moment longer while my mind reoriented itself. When my vision began to clear and I felt I could look around without causing my stomach to lurch, I brought my wandering eyes down from the ceiling to face the old man.

The old man's cowl had been pulled back and revealed a rough and weathered face, the kind one expected to adorn a seasoned veteran of war. And those eyes—the brilliant blue orbs clouded by the tell-tale milky whiteness that betrayed his blindness still held the sorrowful memories of brothers and sisters lost. The hard and unforgiving lines of his face gave way to a light masking beard speckled with gray. Clearly this was someone who had seen more in a short span of years than most would ever see in their lifetime.

Despite the old man's age and apparent blindness, I would not make the mistake of assuming him weak and unable to see again. Certainly not after the demonstration that has left me sore in places I never even knew existed. Finishing my examination of the old man I swallowed hard and summoned the strength to utter a single word.

"Dovahkiin."

If he was at all surprised that I knew who he was then he showed no outward sign of it. Then again, why would he if he knew I had followed him and then had set up this trap for me. _Perhaps he figures I am some sort of assassin sent for him_. No sooner had I finished the thought than the old man drew in a carefully measured breath and spoke.

"Tell me, is it common enough an occurrence that you go lurking about after people that I should not be alarmed?" He allowed a wry smile to touch his pale lips, which granted him an almost sinister appearance and it took me a moment to decipher his roundabout question. My mouth was dry and I swallowed hard before answering.

"Forgive me, Dragonborn. I only wished to question you before the opportunity was lost."

"If that is the best excuse you could come up with," the old man growled, "then you most certainly are not helping your case."

"Forgive me again for my poor choice in words," I quickly amended, "I only meant to speak with you, to learn the true tale of the Dragonborn, slayer of Alduin." I hoped he would accept that as a reasonable excuse, for it was my life that was at the tip of his rather sharp and striking blade, made only more apparent as I took note of it.

It was in the brief moment that the old man took to mull over my words that I was able to take in the true astounding beauty of the blade that was inches away from severing my head from the rest of me. The metal was unlike any I had ever laid eyes on, but the markings etched into it were unmistakably Daedric in origin, so I assumed it was one of the rare metals forged from the mix of Ebony and the blood of a Daedra. Despite the rarity of the blade, there was something even more unique about it, something that drew me to it. There was an aura of power eminating from the shimmering runes that instilled fear in the wielder's foes and inspired courage in its allies.

"Perhaps you are still an assassin sent to kill me," the old man's rich voice interrupted my observation of his flawlessly crafted weapon.

"But then you are a poor one at that." The old man sneered at the thought, almost as if he were disgusted by the thought of such an unskilled assassin. I lent his reaction to the sparse rumors that he had associated with the Dark Brotherhood in his colorful past.

No sooner had I finished the thought than he spoke again, garnering my full attention as his voice washed over me.

"No it is more likely that you are truthful in your words and are nothing more than a simple scholar seeking the truth." It was only then that the old man lowered his blade, but I took notice that he did not sheath it. Evidently I was no longer perceived as a threat, but I had yet to earn the trust of the legend standing before me.

_Not that I had expected him to break out sweatrolls and Honeybrew mead_, I thought, _But I had hoped this __confrontation to be a little less… confrontational._

Despite my initial regret that the first impression I left on him was soured, I held hope that I might be given answers I sought. After all, he hadn't demanded that I leave yet. The silence stretched on before the old man sighed.

"So what would you like to know?" he asked. Despite his outward appearance, his tone betrayed the impatience within, but I was careful not to take offense. To even be in the Dragonborn's presence was an honor. To be given an opportunity to hear the tale told by the hero himself was nothing short of a dream come true.

"The truth."

The old man didn't seem the least perturbed by my ambiguous request as he replied.

"Yes, you've made that apparent, but what of it? Do you not believe the tales already sung across Tamriel?" His lips twitched ever so slightly into a grimace. It would seem he and I shared a common distaste for the lies that seem to worm their way into history.

"I am unsure of what to believe." I replied with every bit of honesty and sincerity I could muster, which wasn't difficult considering my appetite for knowledge. "For I have not seen nor lived your life."

The old man seemed to accept my answer, and took a seat by a small table before lighting a candle with a Dwemer contraption I had never seen before. He noticed my curious gaze and held it up to me. "I do not know the Dwemer name for it, but I have come to call it a lighter." It made sense, for it provided a means to light things on fire and was far more accessible than a torch. I could not contain my curiosity.

"How does it work?" I asked.

"Ah, that is the mystery, is it not?" his voice sounded saddened by the mere thought that the knowledge would never be reproduced. "I have had no success in discovering its machinations and so have left it at that." He drew it closer to himself and drew his fingers across the surface, as though he were searching for a seam that might betray a weakness in the artifact's defenses. After a few moments he gave up and set it aside.

"My best guess is that it is part magic, part machine," he sighed, "like many of the Dwemer artifacts. I wish we knew more about their disappearance so as to return them to this land." He paused for a moment and drew in a deep breath. "But you are not here for the Dwemer. You are here for my tale. I must warn you it is a long one, and you may not like all that you are to hear, for I have done things that I regret despite their necessity."

I could not say anything to that. Most heroes did, and I was not here to judge. That task would lay with another scholar who had more time to separate himself from the worldly emotions that sometimes overtook us on matters most important.

"I was born in Skyrim," the Dragonborn began, "as I am sure you are aware. Just as sure as I am aware that you already know I was not always the Dragonborn, that I did not discover my own powers until much later, but there are some things that must be addressed to know why I did certain things as I had done them. And that, scholar, is where my tale begins…"

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><p><strong>Note: <strong>So ends chapter 1, and our protagonist has found what he has bargained for, and more.


	2. Chapter 2

I was born Volrun, but many have known me from tales sung across Tamriel as Dovahkiin—Dragonborn. My story of becoming Dovahkiin is one that begins long ago when I was a small child and the world seemed just as small. Back then I had only one name.

"A Nord has only two things," my father would tell me. "His name and his honor."

The first time he had told me of this, I had asked him what he meant.

"I will explain it when the time is right," He would respond. No matter how much I pried, he would not divulge any more than his cryptic reply, not until nine harvests had passed since my birth. Not until the day I consider most ill-fated, and even that is not a strong enough term to describe my distaste and my anguish. The day of my parents' deaths.

I remember it like it was yesterday. It still haunts my dreams to this day, from time to time. It was a stormy night like no other I could imagine, though a child never could have imagined such a horrifyingly dark day as innocent as his view of the world is. To him the world is his home, a warm cabin built in a small village; small enough that everyone knows you and you know everyone, even if not by name. Home is the place where you can find your mother standing over the hearth, stirring a warm mammoth stew as you tinker with your little wooden toys. It could never have been a more peaceful existence in all of Tamriel. It almost seemed too good to be true.

My father swung open the door with a slam and burst forth into the house, his travelling cloak covered and dripping wet from the torrential downpour outside. He was soaked to the bones, shivering as the wind gusted through the open portal. My mother looked up and they shared a quick and terse look with him before she nodded, understanding.

"Come with me, Volrun." She kept her voice, oh how I loved her voice, calm and her face expressionless, but her eyes. All a child needs to do is look into your eyes and know that something, whatever it may be, isn't quite right. On that night it was as though I could look into them and pierce her soul.

"What's wrong, mum?" I asked. How much I hated not knowing what was to come and why it had to be fated just so.

"There is no time to explain, dear. Quickly now." She took me by the wrist and started to lead me out of the room when my father held her by the shoulder. Once again she only needed look at him and instantly she knew. She left me with my father as she went off to their room.

"Father, what is it? What's going on?" I looked up into his eyes, hoping to see the answer revealed there. I saw a chilling solace. The kind of sad peace an experienced man could tell you was the acceptance of the inevitable, of death. But a child could have never guessed that. A child could never have known.

My father crouched low before me and placed one massive, but soft and gentle hand upon my shoulder. He then looked me square in the eye and spoke.

"My Volrun, my little Volrun." His voice was bittersweet, filled with a sorrow I could not comprehend. "Remember what I always tell you about our people?"

"Of course, father." How could I possibly forget? "A Nord has only two things. His name and his honor." This brought both a smile and a tear to my father's eye.

"Do you still wonder what it means, Volrun?"

I nodded.

"It means that no matter what name people may call you by, you still have your honor. You still have what makes you, you." My father pulled me into a firm embrace to which I responded in kind by clinging tightly to him. In spite of my ignorance and because of my fear I wept. Some part of me knew this was the last I was going to see of my father, and all I could do was cry. Deep down, I felt ashamed.

My mother returned at this point carrying two daggers and my grandfather's broadsword. The latter she passed to my father, the daggers she kept for herself. My father tested the balance of the sword, and then turned to me.

"Volrun, go to your room and hide. No matter what you hear, stay there. Do you understand?"

What little he could actually divulge to his own son was compensated for his tone. I knew the urgency of the situation, and only hesitated a second before making haste for my room. As I reached the door I began to hear horse hooves stomping the ground and men shouting. I entered my room, shut the door behind me, and immediately hid under the bed. I didn't often feel the urge to pray, but at that moment, that was all I did-was all I could do-to keep my mind from the horrible bashings at the door, and the subsequent screams and curses being cast down the hallway from the entryway.

And then… _nothing_. Everything went dead silent, and for a few seconds I allowed a flicker of hope that my parents still lived to shine, but it was quickly doused by the soft _thump thump_ of an armored boot cautiously walking up the hall towards my door. I hoped that whoever was on the other side wouldn't open it, wouldn't find the child of traitors cowering beneath the bed. Whatever hopes I had were quickly diminished as the door creaked open, and a pair of Imperial steel boots appeared at the end of it. They slowly walked to the center of the small room and halted at the foot of the bed. A shadow crept down towards the floor and a helmeted head appeared.

"Aha! Found one!" the young elf shouted. A commotion could be heard out in the rest of the house as the Imperial patrol made their way to the room. I kicked at the elf's attempts to drag me out from under the bed, but he managed a vice-like grip on my ankle and yanked me out as his other hand went for his blade, drawing it out from its sheath. I could feel the hatred and despair in the blade's previous victims as it anxiously awaited the blood of another innocent.

My efforts to free myself doubled as the light glinted off the blade. A lucky kick managed to connect with the elf's groin. It wasn't forceful enough to leave him sprawled out on the floor, but it had caused him to relinquish his hold on my ankle briefly, but just enough for me to escape the blood-crazed elf's grip. I scrambled towards the window, and cursed as I fumbled with the latch. By now the crazed elf had regained his composure and was heading towards me. Stalking his way around the bed, he closed what little distance remained in my cramped room as I back pedaled into the corner—trapped. He drew back his sword, ready to strike me down. It was as he was savoring the moment that a booming voice bellowed out from the hall, breaking the tension.

"Farius!"

The captain spoke only the one word with a gentle firmness, but his tone carried both a silent threat and an unspoken command. When he spoke he garnered the respect of any within earshot, a respect that came from years of experience and wisdom.

The crazed elf, Farius, hesitated. His eyes darted from me to the Captain, then back to me again. I could feel the tension building in the air again. It grew until it was tauter than an overdrawn bow just waiting to snap. I didn't dare breathe for fear that the slightest twitch might provoke the elf. His hatred and bloodlust slowly subsided which could be seen in the vein beneath his temple as it slowly faded.

Reluctantly Farius lowered his sword into its scabbard. You could almost hear the blade's disappointing sigh in the ring of metal against leather. Still I held my breath as Farius slowly sulked out of the room at the command of the captain. It was only when he disappeared from sight that I let out a shaky sigh, and with it my fear. I stood there, back leaned against the wall for several more seconds, until the soft clink of steel boots as the wearer shuffled forward made the presence of the captain all the more apparent.

I jumped up off the wall and crouched into a readied stance, or rather what I assumed was one until the captain let out a hearty, genuine laugh.

"I can commend your bravery boy." I noted that he spoke with a heavy Imperial accent. "But you insult me if you believe that you could last against me for even a second in that poor stance."

In order to emphasize his point, the captain drew his sword and held it, pommel out, towards me. I hesitated a second, a fact that did not go unnoticed.

"Go ahead boy," the captain insisted. "Take it."

I steadied my breathing and reached out for the sword. As soon as I grasped the pommel firmly in my hand a thought struck me. I hadn't even formed the thought, I just acted when I lashed out, thrusting the blade forward as I lunged, putting all my weight behind the single stab.

The blade found only empty air as I wondered how the captain could have moved so quickly. It was the only thing I was able to think of before a sharp pain suddenly erupted in the back of my head and my world then turned to black.


End file.
